Left the ponder his mortality,
the butterfly flutters by,
and lights upon a weary flower,
wilted, waning, less than dapper,
(she must be depressed)
and starts sipping nectar,
to drown his sorrows (no doubt),
concerning the doom that is surely close at hand.

The flower,
feeling rather used,
sinks lower, looking at the earth,
and checking her stem, says
"Oh my! my stem is so wide!"
She begins to cry,
and the butterfly dies,
with five thousand lights in his eyes.

Passing by,
an Elderly Woman
stoops in silence,
collecting the wind shuddered wings,
snapping the too fat stem,
and smiling
from the sweetness of these breathless
reminders
of whatever it is that makes
Elderly Women smile.

The Sun is a fiend,
and the wind may scream,
but there is no sadness to be seen in dreams.

Do you ever get that feeling
like great waves of grey?
clouds so close
you can taste them;
and the green fire
burning across the hillside,
slowly growing,
stoic, knowing,
is flowing up towards the
sun.
the rain is just now falling,
softly
down.
clouds all around,
and that feeling
stealing your breath
is the only thing left
of the beast with cleft chest,
bare breast,
and the best broken bones.
No guests,
all alone.
No sense in dusting the throne.
Blood rusting on the fence;
you're home.

your screams were your letters
unaddressed
your dreams are your betters
unimpressed

What's yours is mine
and mine is yours,
even the contours of the spine
let us align the time we share.
It was never there at all,
and the face with the hands on the wall
knows what never starts
never stops.
tick tock
tick tock
the hearts constant state of shock,
making hour-glass figures of us all.
Watching sand fall,
it's your call.

I've been working
very hard
on expanding my vocabulary
beyond "I'm sorry."
"I don't know."
and the usual gib-gab
that us gibs often gab,
but the more I think about it
the more I find resolve
in the conclusion that
what really needs to be said
is beyond words,
and any representation
of me
on any medium
is only a fragment.

And there,
they're right.
I know why I hate the fact that
I love to look at mirrors.
Keeping my shards to myself.
My fragmented sentences,
I often forget,
can still light fires
in places
other
than here.

Because there exists,
and I'm sorry.

the cigarette smoke hang in the air like
tropical transpiration.
dancing, dipping, she hung on to him tight.
flight topical sensations
starts rapid elation
to sacred vibrations.

Lovers in a lover's dance.
One in each others trance.
They form a flower of shape and motion,
and raise their smiles
like the sun
in an eastern ocean.

When, like a sudden shadow
with such outdone bravado,
a man sprung from underfoot,
from under carpet and soot,
and began to introduce himself,
his hand a continental shelf,
waiting for a shake from the lover's ocean.

Without attention, his hand slunk back to
it's bright blue breast pocket cave.
"Henry Ennui, man o' soot " he said was his name.
The lover's proclaimed "You're insane."

The words tickled Henry, like water the drain
then he let the lovers look
inside his brain
where the rain was
and the flame does
what it wants underwater

UNDERWATER:
the lovers gasped,
the ash man rasped,
pulled a pistol from his patched pants,
and proceeded to shoot them both.

Sometimes I scream
****!!!
at the clouds...

and you never seem to hear me
until they release it
in a thousand
wet
whispers

light go down
head turn around
(but ours)
then starts the sound...

i'll trade you this brain space
for your head case.
i like your purple
more than mine,
and in this place
i'm sure you'll find,
my greens are seen,
and the wine is fine.

*******,
have you ever seen a mirror?
i'd love um if I were you.
*******!
you're eye contact is ;
extraterrestrial .

see? I can be fake too.

ah **** honey, it was...
i mean...
can't you take a joke?

i'm sorry..

****...

now she's gone.

and I hate popcorn.

I need to stop talking with my eyes.

I say too much.

What a ****** movie...

at least it's still 4 o'clock.

Sun's still out.



******* popcorn.

Sometimes
my sorrow is mine.

I swallow my depths to feel shallow.
I expel myself in liquids
to repel this self from its wicked
and repair my health with this wilted
conscience.

I want to laugh
and then fall silent.
Because happiness is insane
and self-explanatory,
and the only wise words can't be said.

Sometimes
my sorrow is mine,
and sometimes it's yours.
Or theirs,
but it's always served on a silvered platter

so nothing's the matter.

I would like to formally apologize,
for turning you into a demon.

All I wanted
was to be sane.

So,
I took what I could.
your taste.
your touch.
your time.
Of course, you kept your body,
no matter how much I wanted it.
No matter how much I had it.

I tried to cover my self
with your fingerprints
so that maybe no one could see
the skin underneath.

I tried to cover my selfishness
with my fingerprints.
tracing confessions of love
on your alabaster back.

The fingerprints are still there.
Populating our clay flesh
and our sky minds.
I'll admit to their beauty,
however tender they may be.

After the end,
you kept yourself,
and I kept
your touch.
your taste.
your tears.
pooling like the puddled palette
of a weeping painter.
running down my spine,
making me cry,
the colors.

I wanted you to feel me,
but my eye are knives
and my fingers flames,
so I strayed from my self
and gave you my mirror-heart
so you could watch yourself walk away.

Now that you're gone
your demon screams for freedom,
but she's kept engaged.
For I'm afraid
that her release
is my destruction.

Slowly,
I can feel her becoming my bones.
Soaking in.
The colors.

I would like to formally thank you,
for being my demon.

The ice in your eyes cracked
when the rain your eyes wracked
fractal fingers reaching rip her iris
when the loud cloud-brow rain whispers "why this?"
it's priceless

The demon that screams in your shower
is lie-less.
The fire inside, some evil power.
Your crisis.
His lips aren't meant to be kissed,
but his screams won't be dismissed.

Ice and fire are of the same stuff.
You tried a taste of this life,
and it's not enough.

Well tough.

You listen to love songs
to make yourself cry;
like a drunk with his finger down his throat
luring the origins of his throes to the surface
and out the way they came.
but it's not the same.
because after the deed is done,
the drunk is left with empty eyes
and bottles.
somewhere to start.
While you're left with a
dripping heart
and not a single space left untouched
by your coal-covered fingers,
still warm,
telling the ice in your eyes
to run down your
dripping heart.

the melancholy snow-melt fills the cavities clawed
by your pulse.
the runoff gaining speed and reasons not to stop;
until the reflection of a smile
freezes your form once more.

The white spots in your eyes wane
as you see the cycle;
but you still don't notice the rain
is just a disciple
of the patterns that be.
Because you haven't listened long enough,
Because those love songs still play
and distract the usual numb,
and because in the furthest reaches of your
solitude
you still feel like you're being watched.